


nothing but this, intensified by breathing

by newvision



Series: then good is death, if love for it grows too [2]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23920984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newvision/pseuds/newvision
Summary: things fall together.
Relationships: Jeon Wonwoo/Kwon Soonyoung | Hoshi
Series: then good is death, if love for it grows too [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724278
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	nothing but this, intensified by breathing

**Author's Note:**

> admittedly i felt bad for abandoning the renaissance au and i had like 20k of extra scenes already written but it still wasn't gonna be done anytime soon (or ever. rip) so instead may i offer you: this Frankenstein'd collection of vignettes through which we can all pretend i actually finished this au
> 
> title is from Poem (Light - clarity - avocado salad in the morning...) by Frank O'Hara.

He doesn’t know when it started. Perhaps it was a product of all those hours spent amongst the dust-filled air of his studio that grew heavy with its marble fog. Perhaps it was borne out of a trick of the light, framing Soonyoung’s hands a little too perfectly that they appeared spidery and curling in the shadows. Or perhaps it was his own mind at fault, taking an image he’d seen briefly flashed in the shadows and turning it into an excuse to imagine those same, shadowy spidery fingers curling around his wrists and his waist and his neck. He had always held the view that there was beauty in the word worth remembering - after all, what else was art for? But this beauty only made living painful, in the way one would hiss and have to suck pitifully on their thumb after getting too close to a burning candle. Every time he met eyes with Soonyoung over a meal, a glass of wine, a shared silence, he would have to flinch and turn away, burning with shame at the recurring thought of those same hands.

_Why does this torture me so?_ he’d wondered, late at night once he was sure he was alone and Soonyoung was fast asleep next to him. The city beyond his windows was silent now, and the only company he had were the crickets. The light of the moon streams gently in through the open window. It casted a strangely sick luminescence on Soonyoung’s face, stripping it of colour. If he let himself sink too far, it was almost as if Soonyoung was the marble angel of heaven’s gates, now curled up asleep next to him. It takes everything in Wonwoo’s power to keep his hands in his lap, and not run them over the curve of Soonyoung’s cheek; the fluttering lashes, a strand of hair. 

“That is my friend,” Wonwoo mutters to himself, and the room watches on, pitying him. ‘Soonyoung is my friend.” He doesn’t understand why the words hurt so much, when once he would’ve given up the world to have them be true. 

Instead of thinking himself into a new kind of hell, he closes his eyes and tries to sleep without focusing on the warm weight of Soonyoung’s forehead pressed against his own in the shared space of their too-small mattress. 

When he finally wakes up the next morning, he feels as though he’s lived a whole new life in his dreams. Exhaustion burns smokey and heavy behind his eyelids, and he squeezes them shut in an attempt to try to get even one more minute of decent sleep. Unfortunately, his brain has already caught on to the fact that he’s conscious, and that there is something warm curled around his legs and pressed into his back and it’s _Soonyoung._ He’s fast asleep, still letting out the occasional snore as he presses his cheek farther into Wonwoo’s shoulder blade. Wonwoo, on the other hand, has begun to panickedly list all the ways he can extricate himself from Soonyoung’s vice-like grip without waking him. 

He’s just starting to try and move Soonyoung’s arm off his waist when the other man groans. Wonwoo freezes, secretly hoping he’ll wake up and untangle his legs from Wonwoo’s, just so he can stop his heart from pounding at the feeling of touching another man like this, innocent and private and domestic in a way he’s never had. 

  
  


Hardly anyone speaks of the first labour of art. Everyone he’s ever spoken to complains of calloused hands and bleeding fingers covered in the grain of broken marble or the stain of pigment locked into the skin. All of which are tangible, are known. He knows that he’s done a good day’s work when his hands hurt far too much to undo themselves from around the chisel, and lines of angry red have entrenched themselves into his palms. It is easy to look at himself and say this. It is easy to ignore what the eyes look upon for the work of the hands. And yet the fact remains: the eyes are the first labourers, charting their way over the ridges of a nose or the translucent tenderness in the shell of an ear. They map their way across constellations of blemishes, moles, pockmarks - all the evidence of a body in a life. This is a necessary step to art. Wonwoo knows this. To create, one must first dare to look. But what can he do when the things he wants to create would deem looking a sin? To dare to look is one thing; to have permission to see is another. 

He wants to carve Soonyoung out of the marble. 

He does not know how to tell him this. 

He lets his eyes do the work instead. 

Soonyoung’s loose, thin garment had ridden up in the humid breeze of the afternoon, revealing a pale sliver of stomach. The warm sunlight had created curious shadows that flitted across his face, emphasising the curve of his jaw and the slope of his nose, his eyelids shut comfortably in contentment. He’d stretched then, and Wonwoo’s traitorous eyes had swept the valley of the curve of his throat, hungrily sliding towards his clavicle, the crook of his neck. It’s only when Soonyoung opens his eyes that Wonwoo swallows dryly before tearing his gaze away. Wanting hurts, and there is a strange burning in the back of his eyes which he convinces himself is an effect of the elements and nothing more.

Now, in the privacy of his own studio, the horrible truths he’s been avoiding bare their fangs and come to life, waltzing around him dangerously as he reaches out a shaking hand to caress the cold marble. He runs his hand down Soonyoung’s - no, the figure’s - waist, wishing wistfully for the embrace of soft skin instead of this unflinching, unforgiving hardness. He wonders how Soonyoung will react to his touch, if he’ll flinch in disgust at the calluses on Wonwoo’s hand and all the bits of broken skin that he is. He wonders if Soonyoung is ticklish, if he’ll let out breathy bubbles of laughter as Wonwoo kisses him in a wasteland of art and beauty and terror. The skin of the statue is so, so cold against his vulnerable flesh. Somewhere in the back of his chest, a familiar tiredness rears its weary head, rumbling in his chest with the notion of being fed with more of his own self-made suffering. 

Although, he supposes, maybe this is for the best. Soonyoung will never be someone that’ll belong to him. Maybe some divinity from above had intended for things to play out this way, to awaken him to the wrongness of his worldly desires. That’s never stopped him before, though. In the closeness of this space, he’s the king of his own private hell, and that’s more control than any aspect of the world beyond his doors will ever give him. 

With just a hint of uncertainty, he leans towards his creation, scrutinising its eyes, the shape and curve of eyelids masking an attentive expression. Distantly, he thinks of how Soonyoung’s eyelids look, how they’d cover his pupils fold at the corners like stars whenever he’d cast Wonwoo a rare, teasing smile. He thinks of how Soonyoung’s cheeks lift as he speaks, how his lip sometimes catches in his teeth as he talks because he has so much to say. He thinks of how Soonyoung’s lips will feel against his, plush and vivid and so, so warm. He presses the pads of his fingers to his lips, wondering what it might be like to have another person so close. 

When he opens his eyes, Soonyoung is staring at him, right out of the marble. The world hurts more than he knows as he takes an unsteady step forward, wondering exactly how pathetic it might be to carve the arms reaching out for an embrace, just so he’ll have a chance to tuck himself there, away from the wretched, weathered world.

With a sigh escaping his own lips, he licks them furtively. Overwhelmed by longing, and an ever-growing sense of desperation, Wonwoo eyes Soonyoung’s lips. Wonders how cold they must be, how long they can serve as a substitute for the real thing before he’ll have to find himself something else to latch on to. And still, he can’t dispel the thought that just one kiss couldn’t hurt. After all, when has a kiss ever killed anyone?

His mind swirling, he stands on his tiptoes to press a soft, uncertain kiss against the figure’s unmoving lips. Almost immediately, he flinches backward, surprisingly shocked by the coldness of the marble and the distinct lack of humanity in it. Even as he blinks in horror at what his desire has done to him, his eyes keep mapping a path back to Soonyoung’s lips, and that same, shameful part of him longs for another kiss.

So he obliges. He makes his way back, presses his hands flush against Soonyoung’s chest. He imagines the way real flesh would feel under him, pliant and thrumming with life. His hands run over the expanse before settling at the shoulders, brushing over the suggestion of muscle. Sucking in a deep breath, he kisses Soonyoung, moving his lips in the way he supposes lovers do. Soonyoung remains unmoved, and Wonwoo laughs darkly at the notion that this is probably how he’d react in reality if Wonwoo were to kiss him. If he wasn’t busy being disgusted at him, of course. It’s the lesser of two evils. 

Setting that thought aside, Wonwoo crumples under his own loneliness. Who will love him, will see him as worthy of being loved when he’s like this? Cooped up in his own studio, looking for love in all the wrong places. He hopes desperately that the creatures he creates will love him back, but they do no such thing, and it is so much easier to quell the waves of his mind by thinking they do. Here, in this studio, Soonyoung loves him back, will let his arms circle Wonwoo’s waist before pulling him into a loving kiss, for all the world to see. No hiding, never any hiding. Soonyoung’s hands would run down his waist, and he’d laugh, because he’s ticklish but there isn’t a soul in the world who’d know that besides Soonyoung. His hands dip and trace and explore, and a topography of love would be charted across Wonwoo’s body, no longer wracked by the unavailing tide of the world.

Eventually, his hands will dip, settling in the crotch of Wonwoo’s trousers. Mirroring the action, Wonwoo huffs lightly against Soonyoung’s lips, and realises his hands are shaking. Desire is flowing freely in him now, the awareness that this space might be the only one he ever has having awakened something in him. What it is, he isn’t sure yet. He keeps his mind on nothing but thoughts of Soonyoung, and the weight of his hands on a body that’s never known hands that were kind.

With painstaking slowness, he wraps a hand around himself, the knobbiness of his own fingers in his mind transformed into Soonyoung’s much softer ones. He’s an artist too, so they’ll never be free of the marks of their trade, but as he palms himself, he almost cries just thinking of how entirely freeing it must be to be so vulnerable like this in front of another person. He wonders if Soonyoung will cradle him gently, set him down against silk sheets before opening him up with his fingers, his tongue. He thinks of the wetness of Soonyoung’s mouth. 

Wonwoo lets out another pained groan, shivering and whining as he comes into contact with the sudden frigidity of the marble. Instead of being a dizzying reminder of the myth of his desires, it only reminds him of the cold Florentian nights, an endless number of equally unreal days spent with Soonyoung, their thighs flush against each other under threadbare blankets.

The last thing Wonwoo thinks before the world becomes a blinding supernova is Soonyoung leaning to whisper in his ear, telling him of all the ways and wonders that he loves him. Even if it isn’t real. 

  
  
  
  


“Would you let me carve you?” Wonwoo wonders out loud to Soonyoung one evening. It’s not a special evening in any way, shape, or form. They’re out on the balcony of Soonyoung’s tiny apartment, watching as the sun dips low in the sky and covers Florence in its gentle rays that only make the city burn brighter.

“Me?” is Soonyoung’s first response, as he almost tips over his chair in his effort to face Wonwoo, blinking rapidly. Wonwoo, for once, doesn’t smile.

“Yes,” he answers, but it’s quieter now, much more unsure than when he’d first made the suggestion. “If that’s alright.” 

“Why?” is what Soonyoung says next. It’s not that he doesn’t want Wonwoo to carve him - the other is a spectacular artist, and Soonyoung is positive he’ll find something shining within him that he himself had never seen before. He’s just not sure why Wonwoo would want to carve him of all people.

“That’s not the right question, is it?” Wonwoo asks, before laughing almost self-deprecatingly. He can feel the tips of his ears burning bright red with each second Soonyoung denies him a straight answer, and he hopes to God that the other boy hasn’t noticed his embarrassment. “You should be asking why on Earth I wouldn’t want to carve you.”

“Stop dodging me,” Soonyoung complains, poking Wonwoo’s shin with an outstretched foot. “Tell me,” he demands, and he only just notices how much his cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Because,” Wonwoo starts, letting his gaze run over the horizon. He feels removed all of a sudden, a hundred miles away from everything and everyone despite the sounds of the city below and Soonyoung’s foot still pressed against him. The world spins, but still he mutters, “Because you’re beautiful.”

His ears are ringing now, and he doesn’t dare look at Soonyoung. They’d never discussed this, this thing that they were doing, let alone if it was to be a thing after all. A sculpture of Soonyoung would be as good as immortalizing it - art, after all, lives on. Even when people don’t. It’s a blessing and a curse. Beauty, terrifying as it is, deserves to live forever. 

His thoughts are interrupted only by the soft press of Soonyoung’s lips against his cheek, pulling him back to the little balcony. He can feel the warmth of Soonyoung’s pinky resting daintily on his knuckle, and he freezes up entirely, letting the other boy run his lips over the hollow of Wonwoo’s cheek, ghosting a kiss there. Everything is unbearably hot, and still Wonwoo shivers. He doesn’t know what to make of this, this love. If he can even call it that.

“No one’s ever said that to me before,” Soonyoung whispers in awe, and Wonwoo can feel his eyelashes fluttering rapidly against his cheek. “Thank you, love.” 

Wonwoo feels as though he’s going to cry. 

Instead, he presses his lips fleetingly against the veins in Soonyoung’s neck and thinks of how in the world he’s meant to do justice to the boy he loves, when he hasn’t got a clue if that love is at all returned.

  
  


“What’d you have in mind for the sculpture?” Soonyoung asks later that night, just as Wonwoo is awkwardly shuffling around and trying to decide whether Soonyoung wants him to leave or not - even though he clearly wants to stay. 

Wonwoo freezes at his question, he palms going clammy. Soonyoung knows as well as he does that he’s only ever carved nudes, or very sparsely-clad figures. He thinks of it as part of his artistic philosophy, the purest expression of the beautiful thing. There was no use covering it up with unnecessary layers, ruining the fluidity of relaxed joints and outstretched arms. 

When it comes to Soonyoung, however, it’s an entirely different question. His heart is pounding against his ribcage, and if he doesn’t say something right this instant, it’s going to jump right out of his mouth.

“A nude,” Wonwoo blurts, and his cheeks tinge with a dusting of rosy pink the minute the words are out of his mouth. He looks at the worn slippers that encase his feet before he rubs one over the other, all his muscles poised to run and never look back. Although, he supposes, his heart would ache for Soonyoung so much he’d have to come back, eventually. Like the arrow of a compass, always returning to the north. 

Surprisingly, Soonyoung doesn’t react with disgust, only contemplation. 

“I’ve never posed for a nude before,” he says, wrinkling his nose before patting his stomach. “I don’t exactly have the most ideal figure for it, either,” he mumbles, letting out a self-deprecating bark of laughter before his ears burn bright pink through the dark locks of his hair. 

Wonwoo, like a fool, stands in silence. He doesn’t trust his mouth with the right words, to speak with gentle reassurance when all he’s ever known is intensity. “I still think you’re beautiful,” is all he mutters. To him, it sounds like stupid repetition, recycling words. He should be capable of more than this.

It’s Soonyoung’s turn to blush now, hand fiddling with a piece of peeling wallpaper.“I think you’re beautiful, too.” 

Wonwoo snorts at this, turning away instinctively. The light has long faded, and instead the moon rises in the sky, casting a cold, silver light on everything. “You don’t have to say that,” he admits, his hand already reaching up to run over the awkwardly-set bone in his nose. It’s another one of the areas that he finds himself paling in comparison to Soonyoung - too many angles, too much sharpness. A terrible figure to sculpt. 

“It’s the truth,” Soonyoung returns easily, but he’s still leaning against the wall, so far from Wonwoo. So show me, Wonwoo thinks. Show me that you think I’m beautiful, show me that you love me. They all mean the same thing now, anyway. 

Physically, Wonwoo just shrugs before he heaves his supplies bag onto his shoulder. 

Just before he strides out, he thinks of what he would do if Soonyoung were to grab him by the hand and give him a kiss, a real kiss. Not one of those feather-light touches, tinged with secrecy, but a dizzying, grounding kiss. Even worse, if Soonyoung were to stand there, lips slightly parted and pink from their kiss, telling Wonwoo that he loves him. 

He shakes his head, and the mirage disappears. Such things only exist in dreams, after all, and if there’s one thing Wonwoo has learnt, it’s that dreams are utterly useless without conviction. And between him and Soonyoung, he doesn’t know which lines he can cross - so he doesn’t bother walking at all.

Instead, he bades Soonyoung a good-night and tells him he’ll come by to sketch him tomorrow, before expelling himself unto the dimly lit cobblestone streets. All the way home, he keeps his head down so that no one will see him cry. 

  
  


The next morning, Soonyoung answers the door in a velvet robe and Wonwoo nearly faints.

“Where did you get this?” he hears himself ask faintly. He isn’t sure what he’s saying, to be entirely honest. It shouldn’t be the first thing out of his mouth. But this, this version of Soonyoung standing before him this morning is fucking frightening, and he hasn’t got a clue what to do.

“Got it as part of a contract payment,” Soonyoung tells him happily, tightening the knot of fabric around his waist. It’s green, the colour of a forest after a night of rain. Against Soonyoung’s pale skin, it’s the colour of heaven. That makes no sense, but in this hellish moment, Wonwoo is willing to bet his life on it. “Isn’t it pretty?”

“Yes,” Wonwoo answers, and his mouth is suddenly so very, very dry. “Can I come in?” 

“Ah, of course,” Soonyoung concedes, bustling to open the door a little wider so Wonwoo can slide his way through and very pointedly show Soonyoung that he isn’t about to pass out. Which is why it’s with some horror that he realizes that the robe stops in the middle of Soonyoung’s thighs, leaving the curve of his calves free for Wonwoo to feast his eyes upon.

“Do you want a drink before we start?” Soonyoung calls. Wonwoo hears glasses clinking, but he’s still thinking about what it’d be like to get down on his hands and knees and very gently bite at the flesh of Soonyoung’s calf, to be allowed to pepper it with endless kisses. This is a body made for worship, he realizes. 

“Wonwoo?” Soonyoung asks again, but he’s much closer this time. In fact, he’s reaching his hands towards Wonwoo’s waist, which makes him instinctively step backwards, just out of touch, back to safer territory. 

“No drink necessary, thank you,” Wonwoo replies, but his throat is so stiff that the words have to squeeze their way out. Not to mention, Soonyoung looks slightly crestfallen, presumably at his refusal. “Should we just get started?”

“Right,” Soonyoung agrees, but there’s a note to his voice that Wonwoo doesn’t like. “Like pulling off a bandage, right?” he tries to joke, smiling tightly at Wonwoo, but his fingers are running haphazardly over the dip in the neck of the robe, just over his chest. Belatedly, Wonwoo realises that Soonyoung’s nervous, not used to being entirely vulnerable to the world. It’s so easy for Wonwoo to see Soonyoung as gorgeous, but to him - well, he’s just another person. Closing his eyes, he reaches out a tentative hand for the other to hold, the only reassurance he can offer. Words will never be good enough for him.

Soonyoung slides his palm in easily, and Wonwoo clasps it between both of his calloused palms. His hand is warm and soft and so small in between the bony angles of Wonwoo’s knuckles, and it makes him chuckle.

“If you don’t want to do this, I understand,” Wonwoo admits, still stroking his fingers over the veins of Soonyoung’s hand. “I can try to do a portrait sculpture instead, something simple,” he offers, already trying to examine Soonyoung’s reaction. Instead, and to his confusion, the other boy just furrows his brows.

“You’d do that for me?” he asks, and Wonwoo despises the confusion bleeding through his voice.

“Of course I would,” he replies without hesitation. “You’re so clearly uncomfortable, what good would come out of me forcing you through this?” 

“You, the guy who’s known for being a stickler about what exactly it is that he wants to create, is going to change his mind for little old me?” Soonyoung asks again, and this time, Wonwoo’s face flushes in embarrassment. 

“Oh, be quiet,” he tries to sneer, but it comes out sheepish and tinged pink. Soonyoung stares at him for a second, searching, before he moves.

“I’ll do it,” Soonyoung decides, and in a flash his hands are untying the robe. Wonwoo barely has time to process the series of events unfolding before him before the robe ripples to the floor and Soonyoung is standing before him, entirely naked. It takes every ounce of his self-control to not kiss him there and then, because he still has not made that place for himself. He’s still right here, an artist bound to a creative vision - not a boy bound to another, because boys aren’t meant to do that, after all.

With heart hammering, he directs Soonyoung to the sofa, directing him to lie with his head facing away from Wonwoo, gazing upwards at something no one else would ever be able to see.

Then, he sketches. At first, his hand is shaking so much he can barely let the pencil graze the page, but he grits his teeth, and begs his wrist to stop trembling. Soonyoung is beautiful, that much is true. He just hadn’t expected to be this terrified, at this much of a loss. All he can think of as he sketches is all the curves he could lay his mouth upon, all the lines he could draw with his tongue across, and all of the places he could tell Soonyoung he’s loved.

But he stays silent. Watches Soonyoung squirm under his gaze, letting out a puff of irritation sometimes that only makes the other boy pout at him.

“Wonwoo, when can we take a break?” Soonyoung whines, twitching his toes. “I think my neck is going to get stuck like this, and I can’t suck in my stomach forever.”

“Maybe if you stopped moving, this would be over faster,” Wonwoo replies, not taking his eyes off the dip in Soonyoung’s waist. He shades it carefully into the sketch, a map of Soonyoung no one would ever have but him. 

“But I’m tired,” Soonyoung complains, peeking his head out from under his arm to pout pleadingly at Wonwoo. At this, Wonwoo gives in. In a single stride, he crosses the little distance between him and Soonyoung, and holds up the robe. To his surprise, Soonyoung lets him drape it across his shoulders, and Wonwoo can’t help but let his hands rest there for a little too long. 

Soonyoung spins around to face him, clutching Wonwoo by the front of his shirt before he giggles and pulls him down onto the couch with him. Wonwoo is frozen with surprise, but his hands are still locked around Soonyoung’s waist. 

“Thank you for drawing me,” Soonyoung says, kissing the top of Wonwoo’s head gently. His heart beats as fast as a hummingbird’s wings, and in reply, he only presses his face into the open space of Soonyoung’s stomach where the robe had fallen open in their embrace.

“Thank you for posing for me,” he replies. He pauses for a second, then presses a kiss to the skin of Soonyoung’s stomach, which makes the other boy gasp and tug on Wonwoo’s hair in shock. As quick as it came, though, Soonyoung is petting down his hair, apologising for his sudden reaction. Unfortunately for Wonwoo, despite the coldness of his stature, he’s utterly useless at keeping a straight face when it comes to Kwon Soonyoung. 

Embarrassed, he tucks his face away in the velvet of Soonyoung’s robes as the other boy’s body shakes with laughter. They smell of lavender, crisp and fresh and so gentle. If he closes his eyes, he could fall asleep right here, in the arms of the boy he loves. Instead, he thinks distantly of what it’d feel like to be allowed to kiss the smile right off of Soonyoung’s mouth.

Just as the thought occurs to him, Soonyoung’s fingers are running down Wonwoo’s jaw, tilting up the base of his chin. Startled, Wonwoo stares into Soonyoung’s eyes - he’s only now noticing that they’re brown, with the tiniest flecks of gold. Of course, he’s perfect. What else should Wonwoo expect from him, so clearly heaven-sent? He’s a beauty that should shake the world down to its very core, because of course he is, because Wonwoo is in love with him.

Which is why it’s like all the angels had heard his desperate, pleading prayers when Soonyoung leans in and kisses him, full on the mouth. Wonwoo nearly cries at the sensation, but can only inhale sharply and let his hands scrabble uselessly for purchase, gripping on to any part of Soonyoung that will ground him before his heart gives up on him. Soonyoung’s mouth tastes like lavender too, he realises. For once, it barely hurts.

And he keeps kissing Wonwoo. He doesn’t break away fully, beyond pulling them apart slightly so he can gulp down air before going back to lazily kissing him, his hands still firmly planted at his waist to hold Wonwoo against him. Wonwoo can feel his eyes burning, and he refuses to let go of Soonyoung, so afraid that this is nothing more than his mind playing another desperate trick on him. Instead, he kisses Soonyoung harder, because if he’s going to have these delusions, he may as well lean into them now before he never has the chance to again. This time, at least, his mind has the courtesy to lend him a real pair of lips, rather than the unfeeling ones of a statue.

“Slow down, love,” Soonyoung tells him, his hand going to stroke the curve of Wonwoo’s hip. “We have all the time in the world, don’t we?”

The minute Soonyoung welcomes him into his house with a coy smile and a beckoning finger, Wonwoo knows he’s fucked.

“What are you doing,” he asks Soonyoung, but his voice is so high with caution that it immediately tips Soonyoung off. The other man spins on his toes to face Wonwoo, whose expression is growing more and more wary by the moment.

“Why do you always assume I have something planned?” Soonyoung muses, his hands automatically searching for Wonwoo’s, just so he can lace their fingers together. “Is it a crime for me to smile when I see the man I love?”

“Huh,” Wonwoo says intelligently. Love, he thinks. Soonyoung loves me. This has become something he’s worthy of. How strange it seemed to him, when all this while it felt like he’d been the one to love more. 

“Oh, don’t act like that’s new information to you,” Soonyoung scoffs, leading Wonwoo through the hall. “It’s always been you, right from the very beginning.” 

At this point, Wonwoo finds his voice. “Was it though?” he wonders, and some broken part of him shudders at how Soonyoung immediately tightens his grip on Wonwoo’s hand as they sink into the plush velvet of the sofa. “From what I recall, you couldn’t stand me.”

“For good reason,” Soonyoung snorts. It’s clearly a joke, passing banter, but it makes Wonwoo’s heart feel like it’s breaking all over again. “But you changed. Less prickly, I think. Before that, I could barely tell anyone a single thing about you. You were just a sculptor like any other, nothing special. But if anyone were to ask me now, I’d know you from your touch alone.” At this, Soonyoung smiles to himself, a small smile that leaves a little hollow in his cheeks as he leans into the crook of Wonwoo’s neck. “Now, you’re my Wonwoo. Anyone else isn’t you.”

By this time, Wonwoo has frozen, his arm tingling as Soonyoung clings to it, breathing softly beside him. All he can think of is how he’s somehow tricked this man into loving him, a man who clearly deserves someone different than Wonwoo. Better than Wonwoo, at least. Next to him, the strands of Soonyoung’s dark hair tickle his neck.

“Don’t you want more?” He can’t help but ask. If he doesn’t say it now, the words will sit in his chest like caged birds, fluttering in his chest at every twinge of doubt he feels. Even he knows, that’s no way to live.

“Not if it isn’t you,” Soonyoung replies simply, going to tangle his fingers with Wonwoo’s again. They’re shorter, stubbier, but they’re a direct contrast to Wonwoo’s hands. Specks of powder seem to have permanently rooted themselves beneath his chipped nails, whereas Soonyoung’s are filed and buffed in perfect presentation. There’s a beat of silence as Wonwoo just sits, watching the other man fiddle with their intertwined hands, the weight of his body warm and steady against Wonwoo’s pounding heart. 

“Actually,” Soonyoung interrupts, startling him. He lets out an involuntary giggle at Wonwoo’s jumpiness, going to press a kiss to his collarbone as if it was something he’d always done. “Could I paint on you?”

“Why?” is the only question Wonwoo can think to ask.

“For the same reason you gave me,” he answers. “Because you’re beautiful. And I’m trying to show you my love in a way you’ll understand.”

“In a way I understand,” Wonwoo repeats, as if to test the way the words feel in his mouth. He’s very pointedly not looking at Soonyoung, knowing that his pleading gaze would have him agreeing to burn down cities for him in a heartbeat. “And what way is that?”

“Art, of course,” Soonyoung replies, sounding mildly surprised. When Wonwoo doesn’t respond, Soonyoung curls into his side further, nestling in like it’s where he’s always belonged. In his embrace, there’s silent reassurance. Knowing each other for this long, there was sometimes no need for words. Sometimes, they just know. And that’s enough. For instance; the weight of Soonyoung's palm on Wonwoo’s stomach is a ‘you don’t have to say yes.’ The kisses he trails up the shell of Wonwoo’s ear are a substitute for ‘I think I’ll always love you’. Their intertwined hands are a confirmation, an endless refrain that echoes with the voices of their past, present, and future, all saying ‘you are the one I love.’ Simple as that. 

When Wonwoo looks at him, Soonyoung kisses him on the mouth. Sometimes, there was no need for words. 

When Soonyoung returns with his supplies, Wonwoo is still sitting in the middle of the living room, his shirt half undone. He watches as Soonyoung as he strides in, his gaze observational but empty. Desire settles over his gaze, and the sight of him splayed out as the lights dance off the black silk of his shirt prompts a rush of blood straight to Soonyoung’s dick. The buttons of his shirt are gold, shimmering temptingly as Wonwoo blinks up at Soonyoung. 

Unable to help himself, Soonyoung kneels, capturing Wonwoo’s mouth in a kiss. Almost automatically, his fingers go to graze the rise of Wonwoo’s cheekbones, the skin stretched smooth over his face. Wonwoo sighs at the touch, leaning into the weight of Soonyoung’s hands. Absent-mindedly, he lets his other hand palm the hem of Wonwoo’s shirt, exploring the space between silk and skin.

“I need this off,” Soonyoung tells him as he pulls away, lifting Wonwoo’s shirt slightly. With a flourish, Wonwoo sits back and peels the shirt off. Transfixed by the scene, Soonyoung eyes the way his muscles flex as he moves, and distantly understands why Wonwoo is so enamoured by human anatomy. To Wonwoo, the body was something to be sought out in the marble, created in the image of divinity. To Soonyoung, Wonwoo’s body is just that. Gently, Soonyoung pushes Wonwoo down so he’s laying with his back flat against the marble floor. Involuntarily, Wonwoo shivers, the memory of his mouth against unflinching marble ringing around in his head. Soonyoung mistakes this for discomfort, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Wonwoo doesn’t have the heart to tell him. 

He watches in silent awe as Soonyoung draws out each variation of brush, and wonders how in the world he ever saw him as inferior. “What will you paint?” Wonwoo asks, tilting his head so he can fix Soonyoung with his gaze.

“For you?” Soonyoung hums for a minute as his fingers dance over brush tips and pots of pigment, eagerly deciding what to use. “The world.”

  
  



End file.
